


there's no place like home

by matskreider



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (as in there is a conflict but i never wrote it lol the biggest conflict is the conflict of gay), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, also??? excessive gay, ambiguous conflict, hockey geno just wants to go home, sid is a mage; geno is his warrior king, there's universe melding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: There are stories told at home about where fissures in the time space continuum come together, where the edges of one world blur into that of the next. While Zhenya had never fully believed in these stories – they were fun to learn about in school, nothing more – they still amused him. He just never expected that he would one day fall prey to such a tale.Or that it would be in the supply closet of their practice facility in Cranberry.(hockey!geno winds up in a world where his counterpart is a warrior king and sidney crosby is his mage spouse. there's magic and eagles and geno just wants to go home.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoffeeStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeStars/gifts).



> This is based entirely off of the tags on [this post](http://nomorelonelydays.tumblr.com/post/159250405307/icosahedonist-strmedaddy-x-geno-malkins) and the resulting conversation with Bee. With her permission, I grant this fic unto you all. Hope you like it! 
> 
> Also a brief note:  
> the "royal tongue" is Russian, the "common tongue" is English, and while I never explicitly stated it as such, the "language of battle" is French. So when Zhenya's speech is fluent and grammatically sound, it's because he's speaking the "royal tongue." If there's any confusion, let me know! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people, this is entirely a work of fiction.

There are stories told at home about where fissures in the time space continuum come together, where the edges of one world blur into that of the next. While Zhenya had never fully believed in these stories – they were fun to learn about in school, nothing more – they still amused him. He just never expected that he would one day fall prey to such a tale.

Or that it would be in the supply closet of their practice facility in Cranberry.

Perhaps it was more along the lines of something of a dream, a very, _very_ realistic dream.

But he’d never come across frigid mountains like those looming in the background, visible through the thick trunks of the trees. No fruit grows on them, they appear to be pines of some sort, and he stands in the moonlit clearing in nothing but his Under Armor from practice. Zhenya feels decidedly exposed.

The sound of hoof beats rapidly approaching startles him. He turns towards the noise as a group of six riders burst forth from the trees. Shouts sound in the night air as they encircle him, two rings of three riders each. Zhenya holds his hands up in a placating gesture, his eyes wide.

The inner circle comes to a stop while the outer circle continues to walk, each rider with their heads turned towards him. They wear black clothing that looks too thin to be warm in the mountain air, but they don’t seem bothered by it. Hoods and masks cover the heads and faces of the riders, who appear to be warriors of some kind, if the knives and staffs they sport are any indication.

The rider atop a black and white stallion dismounts with grace, approaching Zhenya. This close, Zhenya realizes he’s taller than the warrior, who only has brown eyes exposed. “My lord, what are you doing here so exposed, and at this time of night?” The warrior – clearly a man, judging from the tone of his voice – speaks in halting Russian, with an accent very clearly not American.

Zhenya furrows his brows and looks into that gaze. The way he’s standing, the worry and care in his voice and eyes – it’s all familiar.

Zhenya has seen that reflected back at him from many a hospital bed.

“Kuni? What are _you_ doing here?”

All at once, the softness leaves Kuni’s gaze. He steps to the side and strikes quickly, kicking at the back of Zhenya’s knees. Years of injuries and stress fold the joints down and he falls to the hard ground.

He feels rope tied around both his wrists, can feel the tension increasing and decreasing as Kuni ties knots.

“Hey, let me go!” Zhenya struggles, but a second rider dismounts and presses a short blade to his neck.

“It would be best if you stood still, Imposter,” the second one murmurs, and when Zhenya dares to meet his eyes, he’s almost unsurprised to see this world’s version of Horny staring down at him.

Zhenya heeds his advice and stops moving. Shortly thereafter, he’s hauled back up to his feet, Horny’s knife pressing against his sternum.

“We’re taking him to his Highness,” Kuni announces, this time in English. “Kessel’s line, ride in first. We’ll take care of this.” He steps back once his knots are finished, and Horny manhandles Zhenya onto the back of Kuni’s horse.

The outer ring of riders gallops off, the leader astride a red roan. Zhenya turns in his spot to watch their departure, but the business end of the third rider’s staff encourages him to turn back to facing forward. Horny and Kuni remount their horses, and the second trio takes off at a slower, but no less urgent pace.

As Zhenya rocks along, the forest flying by them, he can only hope that maybe, just maybe, the magic will fade and he’ll find himself back in the correct world.

* * *

The castle is an impressive thing, standing tall in the valley between two mountains. The outer walls are white with frost, their stones black beneath that. The castle is made of a similar material, two high spires carving upward into the sky.

It reminds Zhenya of the Muromtzevo Masion, a strange blend of French and Russian architecture, but that could also be his mind struggling to understand what it actually looked like.

(Most of the stories involved familiar people and places in these strange worlds. Hopefully to keep the newcomers, to force them to stay and forever interconnect those worlds. Zhenya didn’t think he would be fooled so easily, but after his mistake in the clearing, he wasn’t sure.)

Kuni leads the trio directly to the front gate, stopping his horse at the circle. Various people come forward with lanterns hooked to their belts, taking the horses and leading them away once the warriors had dismounted. Kuni attaches a lead to the bonds on Zhenya’s wrists and leads him in that way, like an animal to slaughter. Horny, and someone who Zhenya guessed to be Bones, walked behind them, blades at the ready.

The throne room is only black, gold, and white. Two thrones sit at the far end of the long hall, with a gigantic golden eagle statue against the wall. Its wings are spread out, the far feathers brushing the walls on either side, the detail incredibly lifelike. When they get closer, Zhenya can see rubies in the place of the eagle’s eyes.

He thinks he sees it blink, but it could be a trick of the firelight.

Though there are two thrones, only one is occupied. The man in it lounges, his legs thrown up over the right armrest. He rests his cheek on his left hand, a crown of rubies and gold sitting atop a head of black hair.

A set of hands on Zhenya’s shoulders force him to kneel once again on the stone floor, and he drops his gaze. Better to go for more formality than less.

“My lord,” Kuni begins, in Russian once more. “Apologies for waking you at this late hour. But your Heart’s Sight was correct.”

“Of course it was, he is never wrong.” The slouching figure doesn’t appear to move, but Zhenya recognizes that voice. It would be impossible not to; it is his own. Curiosity burns within him, wanting him to lift his head confirm what his ears had heard. But as he twitches slightly, he feels someone step closer behind him. A clear warning to _not_ move, and one that Zhenya heeded.

There’s the sound of shifting from the throne – perhaps the King was standing? A moment more of silence, and then: “Let me see his face.”

A hand takes ahold of Zhenya’s hair and pulls until he’s forced to look up. Zhenya stares at what must be this world’s version of himself. Just as tall, about the same age, but with indefinitely more poise.

The King stands from his throne, his red robes juxtaposing dangerously against the black twisted metal. He has a cape of a navy blue color, lined with white fur of some kind. His crown reflects the firelight, and above his head, Zhenya _swears_ he sees the eagle turn its head to meet his gaze.

This mirror version of himself stares at him, no emotion on his face. Then he waves his hand. “Eviscerate him.”

“ _What?_ Hey, hey, no!” It’s the first time Zhenya has spoken since the clearing, and as he does so a knife finds its way against his throat.

“How _dare_ you speak against his Highness? Your death will not be swift because of it,” Horny promises as Kuni begins to haul Zhenya back to his feet. Zhenya struggles again, the knife pressed against his throat drawing beads of blood.

A screech echoes within the chamber from the eagle, and all falls still. The great metallic sculpture folds its wings back, moving with the ease of a living, breathing being. Out of the shadows comes yet another figure, dressed in black and gold robes. They fall loosely around him, and he approaches with his hand up.

“Wait, my love,” comes fluent Russian in a very familiar voice.

 _Sidney_? _Sidney Crosby?_ Zhenya would know that voice anywhere, and this was _not_ the place he expected him to be.

(He did want to see him here, though. He tries not to look too hard into that.)

Sidney comes into the light, reaching up to settle his raised hand on the King’s shoulder. He does not look at the King, but reaches his other hand forward.

Suddenly, Zhenya is not standing with a blade at his throat, but directly in front of this world’s version of Sidney. His eyes are golden, like the trim of his robes.

“When I told you to send the men,” he begins softly, still looking Zhenya up and down. “Did I not tell you not to be hasty?”

“Yes, of course my jewel,” the King replies, bending slightly to get more to Sidney’s level.

“So imagine my surprise when I arrive to hear you ordering him to be murdered?” Sidney turns with narrowed eyes and a raised eyebrow.

The King ducks his head, a blush staining his cheeks. “Apologies, my heart.”

“He is not of this world, Zhenya. My Sight can see that much, as can any man’s eyes.” Sidney lowers both of his hands, and steps to the side. Behind him, Horny and Bones kneel, while Kuni bows.

Sidney waits a moment. Zhenya’s beginning to get a little bit tired of these dramatic silences. “As of now, he is not an enemy of this kingdom. Send him to the West Wing, and there will be clothing for him that is not…this.” He gestures at Zhenya, and slowly the stiffness from his abrupt summoning fades from his bones. “We will dine with him in the morning. Sirs Dumoulin and Schultz will be his guards. There are no questions.”

He turns, his shoulder facing the King. “Zhenya, return to bed. There is no more need for these dramatics in the middle of the night. I’m tired.” Above them, the eagle looks up from preening its feathers.

“Of course my heart.” The King stands, shooting Zhenya a dirty look. He seems put out by the lack of blood sport in his kingdom for that night. When the royal duo leaves, the eagle spreads its wings again, and falls still.

Zhenya no longer trusts it.

There’s a tug at the rope on his wrists, and Kuni approaches him. “Come with us,” the guard intones, the English out of place after such smooth Russian. Zhenya turns and follows him out of the gold and black hall.

The halls they walk through all blend together after a while, the moonlight playing with the gold decorations and patterns. As far as Zhenya is concerned, all of this is over the top.

Kuni finally comes to a stop at a wooden door, too small for Zhenya to comfortably walk through. The room inside has a hearth that’s already alight, a small carpet on the floor, and a four poster bed. Black furs cover the foot of the bed, and an armoire sits against the wall. A window displays a view of the same forest Zhenya thinks he appeared in, and beyond that, those same frosted mountains.

“These will be your chambers, until his Highness’s Heart determines otherwise. You would be wise not to encourage that change of favor,” Kuni advises, cutting off the bonds.

Two sets of footsteps approach, and Zhenya can hear familiar voices. “Why you speak in English for each other but Russian for King and Sid?”

Kuni fixes him with a cold glare. “The royal tongue is reserved for those of royal birth and interactions with them. The common tongue is for all else. You would do well to remember that. And _never_ call either of our lords and protectors by their given names. They will not be tainted by the likes of _you_ ,” he demands.

They remain, sizing up the likes of each other, and Zhenya slowly nods. “Understood. Kuni.”

“Sir Kunitz, to you,” Kuni replies, and takes his leave. The door closes and locks behind him, and there’s muffled discussion behind the wood.

Zhenya rubs a hand down his face, sighing. He’s not dead, and hopefully the morning won’t result in him punished or worse.

At least this isn’t a story where he’s been replaced. At least his universe’s Sid doesn’t have to deal with whatever madman version of himself rules this land.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll fall asleep and wake up back in that same utility closet.

So he strips of his shirt and climbs into bed. The sheets are strange, and the bed is stiffer than he’s used to, but the overall exhaustion takes him deep.

* * *

At the first touches of dawn’s light, a heavy knock sounds on the door. Zhenya groans and stretches out, putting a pillow over his head. “Five more minutes…” he mumbles, hoping it sends whoever it is away.

The knock comes again, and then the door opens. “You have been requested by his Highness and Consort this morning.” The words are English, and Zhenya wants to pretend that he doesn’t speak the language to get the intruder to go away.

But the furs are ripped off his body exposing him to the cold morning light. Zhenya sits up, brows drawn as he stares at this world’s version of Justin standing at the foot of his bed. He wears red robes in the same weird fashion as the warriors of the night, with a golden eagle pin over his heart. He folds the black furs in his hands, and gestures at the armoire. “Clean yourself and get dressed, you have five minutes.”

Schultz then turns and leaves the room.

Zhenya groans but gets up and pads over to the basin of water that had appeared at some time in the night. He washes his face and upper body, before going over to the armoire. Everything seems to be his size, although it’s much more fabric than he’s used to dealing with. White leather pants and a white robe-type of sweatshirt with black trim that falls to his knees are what he puts on. He has four pairs of the same boots, one each in red, black, white, and gold. He selects the white lacing them up quickly. His necklace had managed to survive the transfer of places, and he pulls it out to press a kiss to the cross there.

Another knock sounds, and Zhenya knows his time is up.

Schultz returns, takes his bicep, and guides him out into the hall.

They travel to a different set of corridors now, looping back around towards the main building. It’s not the throne room they return to, but a dining hall. A fire roars at one end, warming the winter-chilled room. A long red carpet covers one strip of the floor, with a long table over top. There’s room for eight – three on each long side, one at each end. Servants line the walls, hands clasped expectantly behind their backs.

Yet another large golden eagle perches at the far end, this one with onyx gems for eyes. It’s smaller than the one in the throne room, and stands with its wings folded and head staring down the length of the table. It does not move, but Zhenya feels the distinct notion of being stared at.

He blames the bird.

Zhenya finds himself forced into a middle chair on the long side of the table. He doesn’t fight the forcing hands, just collapses back into the wooden seat. The food spread out before him looks delicious, but he’s too tired to be truly enticed by it.

He leans his head back against the seat, but a commotion at the front door interrupts him. He blearily looks over at the entry way, and sees a group of five men coming in.

The first is Kuni – _Sir Kunitz_ , his mind corrects. He’s wearing blue robes, much lighter than the black that he had worn earlier. He comes in and takes a seat at Zhenya’s right, close to one of the end seats.

The second man that comes in wears dark red robes and walks with a purpose. His belt slung across his hips holds two knives, one on each hip, and some small pouches. He speaks in rapid French to two others walking in along side him. He takes a seat on the other side of the table from Zhenya, next to the other end of the table.

One French speaker wearing blue robes, like Sir Kunitz’s, takes the other open seat beside Zhenya. The other, in black robes lined with startling green, who had been gesticulating wildly as he spoke, takes a seat at the end.

If Zhenya had to guess, he’d assume the man in green was Flower, the one in blue was Duper, and the one in red was Tanger. The last man, however, in grey and gold trimmed robes, takes a seat next to Tanger, and directly across from Zhenya, listening intently to the conversation. His eyes are a pale gold, not quite as vibrant as Sidney’s, and Zhenya wonders what it means that _that_ is this world’s Shearsy.

The three French speakers continue to talk amongst themselves, Flower enunciating his points with decisive movements. He wears dark green gloves, fingerless on one hand, and Zhenya is reminded almost of the Mad Hatter.

It’s much too early for all of this, and he just wants to sleep. So he closes his eyes, hoping to sleep for the second time. He gets roughly two minutes of relative peace before the five other men stand. There’s a swift kick to his chair and he stands, trying to shake off his sleepiness.

“Presenting his Highness Evgeni Vladmirovich Malkin, King of the Iron Kingdom, Banisher of Evil, Conqueror of the East, and the Illustrious Leader of Our Sovereign Nation,” a man proclaims, dressed in nondescript black clothing with a staff at his side. A golden eagle – an animal, this time, not a statue – perches on his shoulder.

The King enters the room beneath the watchful statue, coming to a stand still. He wears black robes with his blue cloak from the night before, his crown neatly on his head. He surveys the room, and when he sees Zhenya, his eyes narrow. Clearly, his favor had not increased in the King’s mind overnight.

“And now, presenting Consort Sidney Patrick Crosby of the Northern Lands, Jewel of the Northern Lands, High Mage of the Iron Kingdom, and the Heart of his Highness Evgeni Vladmirovich Malkin,” the man continues, and Zhenya has to hide a chuckle. The Sidney he knows would _hate_ all the titles and pomp and circumstance around him. Sidney was a private guy. To have this amount of commotion just for his arrival to breakfast would drive him up the wall.

Sir Kunitz looks down at him and elbows him sharply. “Quiet,” he hisses through clenched teeth, and Zhenya schools his expression.

Sidney arrives, dressed in black and gold trimmed robes. Ruby necklaces and golden rings decorate the mage, and he takes the King’s arm with a small flourish. The duo walks steadily down to the breakfast table. The King leaves Sidney at the seat open beside Conor, before taking his at the head of the table.

Sidney looks at each of the faces of the men around him, before focusing down on Conor.

The shortest man at the table meets the Consort’s gaze. “Good morning, Teacher,” he murmurs. Sidney cups the man’s jaw with a tenderness he had not expressed to anyone besides the King.

“A good morning to you as well, dear heart,” Sidney coos. He gestures to the men standing at the table, but doesn’t look away from Conor’s face. “Tell me, what do you See?”

“I see that…”

“Ah ah, in the common tongue,” Sidney chastises. “We don’t want to be rude.”

“Apologies, Teacher,” Conor concedes. Zhenya bemoans the loss of Russian at the table, but listens regardless.

Conor surveys the table, his pale golden eyes not quite as piercing as Sidney’s stare. “Sir Kunitz is in good spirits and health. Sirs Dupuis and Letang are recovering from their injuries ahead of schedule, though one still feels the effects of the attack. I…cannot ascertain which, Teacher.” He looks down, but Sidney clicks his tongue.

“You will not learn if you do not take risks. Look now, not with your Sight, but with your sight,” he instructs.

Conor lifts his chin once more, gaze flicking between Sirs Dupuis and Letang. Sir Dupuis, besides Zhenya, shifts a little bit, redistributing his weight off of his right knee. Conor gestures to Sir Dupuis. “Sir Dupuis, Teacher.”

Sidney, meanwhile, narrows his eyes at the man in blue. “You gave him help.”

“Lessons from friends are not the worst lessons to learn, my lord,” Sir Dupuis replies. “And one’s Sight can only be supported by that which sight can already see.”

Sidney smiles a knowing but kind smile. “I jest, Sir Dupuis. Dear heart, continue.”

Conor turns to Flower, and a small giggle escapes. “Sir Fleury has outshone even the brightest green witches, my lord. But I suspect he would not like it if I provided the reasons for this claim.”

“A witches’ secrets are their own,” Flower intones, his ever present smile a welcome change from the seriousness felt around the table. “But please, call me Flower. I find it more fitting.”

Sidney quirks a brow, but then gestures to Zhenya, who had been watching the interactions and observations with raised brows. “And our guest?”

Conor turns his gaze on Zhenya. It feels like tickling, something very direct and intrusive. He shivers a bit at the gaze, and the sensation doubles, before it stops. “I…am not sure. He isn’t from here but…I know not from where,” Conor replies, looking up at Sidney. “Apologies, Teacher.”

“He will be good for you to learn with,” Sidney assures. “I know not how he got here, either.”

“Yes, yes, the newcomer is a true mystery. May we eat now?” the King interjects. “I tire of standing.”

Sidney fixes him with a stare, and motions his hand. The chairs each scrape forward, the edge of the seat connecting with the back of their knees, forcing them all to take a seat. “Are you satisfied, my love?” Sidney asks in a slightly amused tone.

The King reaches forward for the dish closest to him. “Yes, my jewel, quite satisfied.”

Sidney hums, and nods to the others to begin eating.

Zhenya is relieved to find that most of the food looks like that of home, and reaches for what is familiar to him. Once his plate is full, he looks up to find Sir Letang staring at him. “So you are the newcomer that dragged Kuni and Phil’s lines out of bed in the middle of the night. And Dumo and Schultzy, huh?” He speaks in the common tongue, and Zhenya shakes his head while shrugging.

“Not purpose. I’m not from here, not know how get here,” he explains.

“No? No idea at all? Not, I dunno, planted or something? You would hardly be the first one who has tried to wear a disguise in here. It never works. Our Eagles see all,” he counters, raising an eyebrow.

“I hide in closet for game with teammates, wake up in clearing in forest. I did not come here on purpose.”

“But you did arrive here at a most interesting time,” Sir Dupuis interrupts, giving Sir Letang a _look._

“What do you mean?”

As they converse, a servant comes around, topping off the glasses of water. He comes to the King’s glass, and pours some in, but does not immediately leave. Sidney continues his conversation with Conor, and the King looks up at the servant.

“What do you need?” the King asks.

The servant sets the pitcher of water on the corner of the table, freeing both his hands. Sir Kunitz puts one hand on the edge of the table, as if preparing to stand.

“ _Your head._ ” The servant – or rather, assassin? – reaches toward the King, but before he makes contact, Sidney waves his hand. All the knives, serving and personal, fly off the table and embed themselves in the would-be attacker’s torso. He falls dead to the floor, the handles of the blades wiggling a bit with the force of his collapse.

All are silent at the table, just watching Sidney and the King. The two of them look over at the corpse briefly. The King returns to his meal, but Sidney levels Zhenya with a pointed stare, before resuming his own meal.

That is what happens to those who threaten his King.

“The Western Borders are hiring cheaper and shittier mercenaries each year, are they not? Do they not understand that a thousand armed men cannot attempt to even lay a single finger on my spouse?” the King mutters, taking another bite of pork.

“You flatter me,” Sidney replies, motioning for the servants to come and take the corpse away. “But you know this worries me the same. Something’s wrong with the Western Lands. I can’t see the attackers as clearly as before. Something is blocking my Sight.”

“So we double patrols on the West then.”

“And send our men where I cannot See them? You think shortsightedly, my heart.”

The two continue their conversation at their end of the table, with Conor and Sir Kunitz listening intently, Sidney’s eyes alight with the look he gets when he’s hyper focused. Zhenya is very familiar with that look, and the near impossible plays and goals that follow. In this context, he’s hopelessly lost, and turns to stare at Sir Dupuis with wide eyes.

“He just _threw knives. With mind,_ ” he whisper-yells.

Sir Dupuis shrugs a bit. “Like I said,” he replies around his bite of bread. “You arrived at an interesting time.”

* * *

After breakfast, the eight of them had walked through the gardens. Winter roses bloom in impossible colors, seemingly to be made of ice themselves. Golden vines climb the white exterior of the castle, the snow around them making Sidney’s robes stand out even more than before. He walks arm in arm with the King, setting the pace for the walk. Conor and Sir Kunitz follow behind, with Sirs Letang, Dupuis, and Fleury alternating who pairs off and who escorts Zhenya.

Sir Dupuis had started the walk with him, answering questions with a calm and open air. He explained that the Western Borders could be attributed to where the “Banisher of Evil” title had come from in the King’s introduction, giving a brief history of the land, and King Evgeni’s role in its foundation. He detailed the prosperity that had befallen the Iron Kingdom once Consort Sidney had charmed King Evgeni with his magic and wits. When Zhenya asked if assassination attempts like that were common, he’d waved it off. “Not as much in other kingdoms, no. Over the mountains there’s a kingdom that has had its king for even longer than ours. They roam frequently, though always return to the same place. They’re some of the few I know who can stay in that environment for so long, but the cold breeds cold hearts. How the Rangers have managed to keep their King alive for so long, I have no idea.”

Zhenya laughs with disbelief. “Here, King Henrik is actual king?”

Sir Dupuis had looked at him with a raised brow. “How do you know of his name?”

“We have a kind of him where I’m from. The King part is just nickname.”

Then Sir Letang had sidled back, and Sir Dupuis had walked to catch up with Sir Fleury.

The walk with Sir Letang was much less chat filled, instead the red robed man saw fit just to walk. Zhenya was relieved when Sir Fleury had dropped back to take his place.

“Do you like them?” the black and green robed man had asked as he gestured to the gardens around them.

“I do, very pretty.”

“Weeks of hard work, no small amount of magic, and I have to say I am rather proud of the result.” Warm brown eyes glanced up at Zhenya. “Well go on, I know you have questions. Ask them. If I cannot answer, I’ll make something up.”

It’s such a quintessential Flower move that Zhenya felt a pang of homesickness. He looked down at where they trudge through the snow, took in the crunch of the steps.

“Or look pensively at the ground, that works too. I can ask to switch with Sir Letang once more, if you would –”

“Announcer call Consort a mage. You say you are witch. What is difference?”

The witch blinked, eyes wide, before he smiled a knowing smile. “You truly are something else. A mage, like you saw at breakfast, can control magic much more abstractly. He can make statues come to life, or knives fly into a man’s chest, among other things. Our Consort is exceedingly gifted, though, so I would not put him up against any others you know. Him on a bad day would set records most other mages can only aspire to on their best.”

Zhenya couldn’t suppress a small smile. Just like his own Sidney.

“A witch is more tied to elements. I’m a green witch, so I specify in earth things. Flowers, trees, stones – all of that. There are witches who study in air, water, fire, and soul, but I didn’t have the patience for those. Besides; Fleury does have a rather startling resemblance to _flower,_ does it not?”

“Your nickname back home is Flower.”

Sir Fleury’s smile returned, more excited this time. “Tell me about where you come from. Is it always winter? Do you have magic? And what are we?”

Zhenya had been about to answer, but he had to stop walking to avoid crashing into the back of Sir Letang.

They’d arrived a relatively small building in the farthest corner of the garden. They’d walked inside, and they’d been there for more than an hour now.

Zhenya learns more by observation than by listening to what was discussed. Those in red robes were the warriors Sidney chose to keep close to the homestead. (They bore the title of defense men, and Zhenya had to wonder if all parallels were that easy to spot.)

Those in blue were those who patrolled afar, and had been the ones who discovered Zhenya last night. (The forwards; and wasn’t it peculiar they referred to them as “lines” as well?) Flower was an anomaly, the only witch Zhenya had seen, though from Conor’s comment at breakfast, he assumed it was just the way the goalies had been transferred into this realm.

Speaking of Conor, it seemed that he was being groomed to be the next mage of the realm. He had been born with the Sight and studied under Sidney devotedly. Not all that unlike the Conor that Zhenya knew.

He zoned out for most of the meeting, politics boring him. This version of him seemed to share the sentiment, as more than once Zhenya caught his gaze staring off into nowhere, very visibly not paying attention.

“And finally,” Sidney’s voice takes an edge, and Zhenya startles to attention to find him staring at him. He ignores Flower’s snickering, and sits up fully in his chair.

“Our guest. Tell us where you’re from, what you do. How you got here. We’re most curious to know.” There’s an edge to his voice now, and Zhenya begins.

“I’m not really sure how this happened, but I was playing around with my teammates after practice and thought to hide in this equipment closet. And I was backing up a bit, and then found myself in the middle of the field where, you know, Kuni and Phil found me. I…We don’t have magic, where I’m from, I play hockey for a living, and I just…really want to get home.”

There’s honesty leeching into every word of the summarized story, and Zhenya sees a flicker of sympathy in Sidney’s face. Perhaps he knows what it’s like to be so far from home.

“Do you have plans to take this kingdom for yourself?”

Zhenya snorts. “After what I witnessed at breakfast, I don’t think so.”

A hint of a smile graces Sidney’s face. Flower hides his own grin behind his sleeve, and Sirs Dupuis and Kunitz share a smile to the side. Only Sir Letang and the King remain unconvinced.

“Might I suggest, my lord, that having such a stranger in our kingdom is perhaps attracting trouble?” Sir Letang begins, addressing the King.

“I have to agree with Sir Letang, my heart,” the King answers, looking over at Sidney. “This is a sign, and not a good one. He is trouble.”

“Not any more trouble than me sending him away would be. Expending that amount of magic is possible, but would be rather exhausting work. This kingdom would be left vulnerable to whatever attack looms in the distance, and until that is dealt with I’m not going to expend my energy,” Sidney answers, reaching over and lacing his fingers with the King’s. “He stays until this conflict resolves itself. After that, he may return home. That is my final word, my King. I will not hear of anything else.”

He stands and walks purposefully to the door. Conor obediently follows, sparing Zhenya a curious glance as he passes. The duo exits the building, before Sidney sticks his head back in.

“Oh, and one more thing. He is to be kept alive.” Then he leaves.

The King doesn’t seem pleased with this, but it’s quite clear that he’s not going to go against something that Sidney has asked for. He waves his hand and the remaining four men get up. Sir Dupuis motions for Zhenya to follow them.

He almost stays behind, but the look on the King’s face forces him out the door.

When the door closes, Flower turns to look at Zhenya with an expectant look. “What’s hockey?”

* * *

Zhenya gets a few moments to himself later on in the day. While Consort Sidney and Conor were off doing whatever it is those blessed with the Sight did, the Sirs each went about their own business to best pursue whatever it was they were in charge of. Zhenya wandered about the grounds, until he found himself drawn down a path toward what he assumed were the stables.

The building was situated between two sloping hills, and the snow around it was a dirty, beaten down muddy brown. His boots squelched into the mud as he walked, and he just barely kept himself from slipping in the mud.

 _That_ would have been a mess on his white clothing, and he wasn’t sure how to get back to his rooms to change regardless.

The barn doors were open, and he hesitantly steps in. A long cement aisle greets him, with a row of stables to his right. What he assumed was the feed room was to his left, then another hallway – featuring a rather large dog asleep in the opening of it – and then another small room. The horses shuffled and munched their hay, swishing their tails in the relative quiet.

Yellow light spilled out of the opening of the further room, and Zhenya crept towards it. Inside was a rather familiar sight.

Murrs, Olli, and Rusty all sit around a tack box in the middle of the room. Each sits on yet another tack box, with walls of saddles and bridles surrounding them. The three of them each have a hand of cards, Rusty studying intently as Murrs and Olli pick through their hand.

Olli selects three cards and smacks them down facedown. “Three fours.”

“Bullshit,” Murrs counters.

Olli smirks and turns them over – he hadn’t been lying. Murrs groans and takes the entirety of the pile, scooping it up into his gloved hands. Like Flower, one is fingerless, except his are a bright white as opposed to dark green. At this rate, he had almost all of the deck, save for maybe twenty or so cards shared between Olli and Rusty.

The three of them wear grey robes, each with different colored trim. Olli’s was a vibrant red, Rusty’s was blue, and Murrs had white.

“Can I play?”

The trio looks up at the new voice. Olli schools his expression into a determined one, but Rusty waves a hand. “Relax, it’s that new guy Kuni picked up last night. He was talking about it in the hall, it was interesting.”

Murrs, for his part, looks up and puts all of his cards into one single pile. “Well I’m down for him coming to play with us if he’ll get me out of this hole I’ve found myself in,” he declares, dropping the pile in the center of the trunk.

Rusty pats a space on the empty trunk besides him, encouraging Zhenya to come and sit. “My name’s Brian, but you can call me Rusty. That’s Matt, but we all call him Murrs. You probably saw his beast of a dog out there.”

“Beckham is an angel and you know that.”

“Oh, I know. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s almost bigger than you,” Rusty shoots back. “And Mr. Serious over there’s Olli. He’s not half as bad as he looks. Personality could use some work, though.”

Olli sneers a bit, but takes in the rest of the cards, shuffling them efficiently. “Stick to roaming, Rusty.”

“At least I’ll see the countryside.”

“What’s your name?” Murrs’ voice cuts through the banter between the other two. Zhenya blinks, and realizes that this is the first time someone has actually asked his name since he’s been in this realm.

“…Zhenya,” he finally offers. “You can call me Zhenya. Or Geno, if easier.”

“Yeahhh, Geno might be easier,” Murrs replies with an apologetic shrug. “Only Consort Sidney may speak that name. It’s not for the likes of us.”

Zhenya nods, understanding. Familiar names weren’t for casual acquaintances, and from what Zhenya had seen, only Sidney had the privilege of being more than a casual acquaintance to the King.

Olli taps the deck of cards on the trunk twice, before beginning to dole out the cards, the ace of spades staring up at them. Once the cards are distributed, he jerks his chin towards Zhenya. “Your move.”

Zhenya looks down at his hand, and decides to start off with the truth. He puts down two twos, and says as much. Then it’s Rusty’s turn, who puts down one three. The turns circle around twice, silent except for turns necessary for the game, until Zhenya puts down one jack.

“Misdirect,” Murrs proudly proclaims.

“Damn it, I knew I should have called it!” Rusty whines, but begins looking through his hand for cards to put down.

Meanwhile, Zhenya takes the social opportunity to motion to Murrs’ white trimmed robes. “Grey means rookie, yeah? Grey red, rookie under Tanger, grey blue, rookie under Kuni?” The trio nods, and Matt looks at his own robes.

“Yeah, white is a water witch,” he replies. “But I’m studying under Flower right now, so I’m still technically in training.”

Rusty puts down a card. “One Jack.”

“Misdirect,” Zhenya interjects, and he laughs at Rusty’s following groan. “Why white for water, though?”

“Blue was already spoken for,” Rust answers as Olli puts down his cards. “And around here, most water we encounter is frozen. So white was chosen.”

“Even though it gets dirty as all hell,” Murrs mutters, putting down two more cards. “Two Kings.”

“I’m sure the King’s Heart would be pleased if that were to occur,” Rusty jokes, elbowing Zhenya. “Maybe that’s why the King’s been so cold to you. Not that he’s a real people person to begin with.”

“You think he jealous?” Zhenya asks, incredulous.

“Wouldn’t you be, if someone who looked exactly like you came into your kingdom and your spouse told you not to kill him immediately?” Murrs asks, looking at Zhenya with raised brows. “The King is not known for sharing.”

Zhenya supposes that if the situations were reversed, if the King came to Pittsburgh and Sidney had taken a liking to him, he’d feel rather insulted too. But he had no claim to Sidney back home, despite the years spent together. He doesn’t say anything in response, just puts down two cards. “Two aces.”

“Bullshit!” Rusty claims.

Zhenya flips the cards over – he hadn’t been lying.

“Wait, did you say two or three?”

“I say two.”

“God damn it!”

The resulting laughter evidently awakens Beckham, who pads into the room. He heads straight for Murrs, his tail wagging and hitting saddles and bridles alike.

“What did I tell you, a right beast,” Rust mutters, collecting the large pile.

* * *

They play a few more rounds of Bullshit until there’s the sound of someone approaching. It’s one of the servants from earlier. She, at least, doesn’t seem to have a counterpart from the Penguins.

“Our Lord Consort expects your presence in his observation tower. It’s a matter of great importance,” she proclaims. It would have perhaps been a little more dignified if Beckham hadn’t stood up and promptly began nosing at her hips and hands for treats.

She feeds him, but continues to look Zhenya in the eye. “Come on then. These three will always be around to cause trouble.”

“Hey I resent that comment,” Olli replies, but the other two merely grin in agreement.

Zhenya stands and turns to follow the woman’s lead.

She leads him back up the hill and through the gardens, taking a sharp left around a tree that appeared to grow yellow tinted glass apples. She opens a door, leading him through. Her mundane brown robes seemed out of place from the rest of the colors Zhenya had seen, but he supposed that even servants needed a uniform.

She comes to a stop beside a golden metal door, with a live eagle perched next to it on a stand. The eagle stares intently at Zhenya, ruffling its feathers. He gently reaches out and the eagle seems to consider him, before nibbling gently at his fingertip.

Zhenya looks over at the servant, to see her reaction, but her pinched expression doesn’t give many answers. She opens the door and motions inside. “He is expecting you.”

He drops his hand from where the eagle had been nuzzling him, but the bird launches itself through the open doorway and leads the way up the stairs. The moment he’s through the doorway, the servant closes the passage with a set click.

_No going back now._

He goes up the stairs, a twisting ornate metal structure, until he finds himself in yet another doorway. Inside appears to be a library, shelves filled with books from floor to ceiling. Windows interspersed the space between the shelves, and judging from the draft, one was open at that moment. Vases filled with sunflowers were mounted on the wall and the tables. They were the most normal flowers Zhenya had seen in his time here thus far.

The eagle that had been downstairs now perched on Sidney’s shoulder. A raven struts along the edge of the desk, a blue string around one of its feet. Conor was sitting behind a desk, writing in a large book, while Sidney was preoccupied writing on some kind of parchment.

He folded it and offered it to the eagle on his shoulder, who promptly flew out of the open window, while the raven hopped forward for attention. Sidney motions to the side, and the bird turns to make its way over to Conor.

“You may approach, you know.” Sidney’s voice sounds, but the Consort doesn’t turn to look at Zhenya. “I did not invite you here to have you stand in the doorway like an outsider.”

Zhenya shyly steps into the room. “This is your study?”

“Of a kind. I use it for research, correspondents, teaching; whatever I have need for,” Sidney responds. He stands and makes his way over to Zhenya. “I trust you’ve found something with which to occupy your time?”

“I found the stables, and some friends inside.”

“Did you see Beckham?”

The question takes Zhenya off guard, but he nods in agreement.

The smile that takes Sidney’s face makes Zhenya’s heart stutter in his chest. “Isn’t he adorable?”

Zhenya nods, a blush overtaking his cheeks and tips of his ears. “Yes, he is.”

Sidney gives him a critical look, his smile fading a bit. “You are missing home, aren’t you?”

“Very much so, yes. And being here…there are people who I recognize but are friends at home and here it’s not the same.”

“Who am I, in your world?”

Unbidden, a smile comes to his mouth, whenever he begins to think of his own Sidney. “He’s the captain, and he’s the best at what he does. It almost feels like we grew up together, in Pittsburgh, playing hockey. He’s my…I don’t know how to say it.”

Sidney stares at him a moment more, before motioning to a window seat lined with black and gold cushions. “Please, have a seat.”

The change in conversation is abrupt, but Zhenya follows the direction. From his new vantage point, he can see that Conor appears to be transferring some kind of symbols from one book to another, the raven sitting on his shoulder.

“Dear heart,” Sidney begins, coming around to stand beside Conor. “I have a task for you.”

“Yes, Teacher?” Conor sets his quill down and looks up at Sidney.

The consort gestures to Zhenya with a ringed hand. “Our guest here has some troubles I’m sure you are familiar with.”

Conor looks at Zhenya with his pale golden eyes. “What do you mean, Teacher?”

“Troubles of the heart, dear heart,” Sidney answers. “He pines. And why would he not, if he has his own version of me awaiting him at home.”

Zhenya blushes bright red, and looks down at his hands. Was it that obvious that he wanted to be with Sidney? That he wanted to be this powerful a couple, but where hockey was their battlefield, and the magic wasn’t so literal?

“Teacher, what makes you think I have troubles of the heart?” Zhenya can hear the embarrassment in Conor’s voice.

“You forget, dear heart. My Sight is most accurate with those I know. You, dear heart, wear your emotions on your sleeve. Even if I did not have the Sight, I could see how you pine. If that fool doesn’t pick up the signs soon, I may be forced to take more drastic action.”

“Oh, no, Teacher, you needn’t get involved in these meaningless whims. You have more to important things to worry about.”

“Do not presume to tell me where my attention would be best suited, dear heart. I know what I can do, and I will do just that.” The rebuke comes quickly, and Zhenya looks up to see both Sidney and Conor still facing him.

“Who is he hoping to get with?” Zhenya ventures to ask.

Sidney looks expectantly at Conor, and Conor sighs. “…Sir Dumoulin.”

The raven takes that moment to caw, almost as if in laughter. Conor glares at the bird, removing it from his shoulder and putting it on the table. The corvid continues to walk around, unperturbed.

“One of my guards?” Zhenya asks, brows furrowing in confusion.

“The very same,” Sidney confirms. “You two will work to help each other with your respective troubles while I and my King determine our future movements in the conflict that arises in the West. Hopefully, by the time you resolve your respective problems, nothing will stop me from being able to send you home.”

Zhenya looks at Conor, who meets his gaze. They slowly nod in unison.

“Perfect. I expect I’ll see you both at dinner. You’re dismissed, the both of you.”

Zhenya looks at Conor and shrugs, before getting up from the window seat. Conor stands and follows, and the two of them leave.

* * *

Conor takes Zhenya to a room that looks much the same as his. Same hearth, same bed, same furs.

The shorter of the two walks to his bed, dropping his body down onto it. “I’m sorry for the Consort’s words. He’s sort of taken me in as his own and he just wants me to be happy.”

Zhenya waves off the apology. This is the most informal he’d seen the young man, and he’d begun to wonder if he’d _ever_ see this side of him. “Sid where I come from is much the same. He cares for his rookies. Very pushy, like mother.” Zhenya gives a wry smile, before coming over to sit at the foot of the bed.

Conor hums, still staring up at the ceiling of his room. “He wants us to help each other…how?”

“I know Dumo where I come from. He’s hard worker, like food, picky about music…good teammate, good friend.”

“He’s much the same here,” Conor admits. “But our schedules hardly overlap. I see him, how he interacts with his fellow defense men. And I See him, how he has a quiet power within him. I’m not sure if it’s magic or just the power of a good heart, you know?”

Zhenya has to try not to snicker at the idea of _the power of a good heart_ being a real thing. “Is possibility, yes.”

“What about you?” The younger man rolls onto his side, looking up at Zhenya. “How did you know you wanted your Consort?”

“He is Sid, to me. We play great hockey together, he help me a lot when I’m come to America first. He not speak good Russian, I not speak good English, but we both speak hockey. Felt kind of less lonely then.”

“Have you ever fought for him?”

Zhenya thinks back to all the gloves dropped in Sid’s name, all the discussions with refs and staring down those who thought they could go for Sidney and get away with it. He supposes, in a way, that he has fought for him. “Yes.”

“Have you ever _killed_ for him?”

“No!”

“Oh. That’s how our King wooed his Consort. Of course then his Consort had to accept living in a place with such winter at all times. Flower came as part of the deal. He makes the sunflowers you saw, which keeps his Consort in a good mood, which keeps our kingdom running smoothly.”

Zhenya can’t imagine that Sidney would accept _murder_ as a courting gift, but he filed it away just in case. Fights were part and parcel for hockey, though, and he couldn’t imagine that it could be all that attractive to Sid. They happened all the time.

“Anything else to court? That your King did.”

“Well he gave expensive gifts, of course. His Consort comes from a land of textiles, which lets us wear these without getting cold,” he explains, motioning down to the robes on his body. “And of course there’s the iron works that our kingdom produces – iron keeps the fae away, and they’d had wars against them in the past. Apparently his Consort comes from a land the fae used to own.”

Zhenya had no idea what a fae was, but he nodded along anyway. Protection, gifts, acts of kindness; all things Zhenya more or less did for Sidney to begin with. What more was there he could do? Maybe he wouldn’t be able to take any advice from this world at all.

Damn.

“—I’m not sure what I could do to court him, though. Magic is nothing special, and I’m still learning how to use my Sight,” Conor continued, Zhenya only tuning in at the end of his sentences.

“You’re only one year young though?”

“Younger than him? Yes. I also don’t know if he’d accept because he likes me, or because he’d feel like he _had_ to, because I study under Consort Sidney.”

“What about…just ask?”

Conor sits up and looks at Zhenya with wide eyes. “Oh, no, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he…I’m not quite sure he’d appreciate being with me.”

“Think he would take advantage? Dumo is not like that. You have powers, yes, but…” Zhenya shrugs. “You could be good for each other.”

“But then I’d have to talk to him,” Conor whines.

Zhenya rolls his eyes. It appeared whining rookies were the same no matter what world they came from.

* * *

Dinner passes by uneventfully. Zhenya finds himself once again between Sirs Kunitz and Dupuis. This time, he’s included in more conversations with the French end of the table, and every so often Conor will catch his gaze.

It’s not quite as rambunctious as the team meals Zhenya is used to, but it’s better than the dark mood of breakfast.

That, and no one died during the course of the meal, which was a veritable plus.

Sirs Dumoulin and Schultz escort Zhenya back to his room after the dinner is over. Zhenya looks back at the table, catching Conor’s watchful gaze with an amused smile of his own. Conor blushes and looks down.

In doing so, he misses the way Sir Dumoulin gives him a look before the dining hall doors swing shut.

Zhenya files that away for later.

* * *

The next few days pass by in much the same fashion. Sir Schultz goes in to wake him with the first glances of morning light, they have breakfast with the same important men every morning (Zhenya’s seat never moves), and then the afternoons are free until dinner. Sometimes he spends time in the stables, getting to know the horses and playing more card games with the rookies he finds down there. Sometimes he wanders through the gardens, which always delights Flower, who asks questions about what the weather and earth is like where he’s from. And sometimes, like today, Sidney puts him and Conor together to try and devise a plan to help the both of them.

Zhenya was lucky as far as this conversation went. He couldn’t actually do anything while he was stuck in this other world, but he had watched Conor’s pining and he had to agree with Sidney – it was a bit ridiculous.

“How long you feel this?” he asks as they wander down the main path leading to the castle.

“Feel what?” Conor has his hood up, a small grey and gold shadow at Zhenya’s side. The hockey player has his own up as well, but for all his size, he simply blends in to the white surroundings.

“Feelings for Dumo. How long?”

“Um…it has been some time. We arrived here in the Iron Kingdom at around the same time, but under very different circumstances. He was of a bit more noble birth, and had worked to come here and train under Sir Letang, to truly hone his skills. He was incredible when he arrived, and now, he is simply…” The young mage trails off, his voice tender. “…A-anyway, I came here by force. I had the Sight, born blessed like his Consort. My parents thought I was a changeling, but hoped I would grow out of the gift. I never did, so they sent me away to be “cured.”” He puts air quotes at the words, a gesture he’d picked up from conversations with Zhenya.

“His Consort Saw this happening and ordered those who found me to bring me here. I thought I was coming to my execution, when I saw that I was being brought here. I’d heard stories of the things that King Evgeni had done to those who crossed him or his Consort and I…well I was just 17 at the time. I didn’t want my life to end.”

“Sid save life?”

“And offer training. The King wants what’s best for his people and his spouse, that is a fact everyone knows. But I think he thought I was competition for his Consort, so at first he was against it. But his Consort saw differently, saw that I could be an ally, or perhaps would become too dangerous to be taken in by another kingdom.”

“So you have feelings for Dumo since 17? Conor, you talk to him. _Today._ ”

Conor shoots him a glare, but the side of his hood hides half of his face, ruining the effect. “We have talked about this before.”

“And I tell you every time, you talk to him.” Zhenya thinks how to get an interaction between the two, before he gasps. “Come to room tonight, Dumo always guard. You talk to then!”

“While he’s on duty? That’s hardly a time to strike up a conversation.”

“Oh, yes, because if he does not guard I will run away, all the way to clearing, and jump back home,” Zhenya deadpans.

Conor groans, dragging his feet in the snow. “I don’t think this will work.”

“Won’t know unless try. Other plot is make him jealous. Works in movies.”

“…What’s a movie?”

“Oh, my god.”

* * *

At dinner that night they sit at the table after the courses had already been cleared away. King Evgeni looks down the rows with a mulish expression, and Sidney puts a hand on his. There had been a kind of tenseness over the table as a whole. Flower, always jovial, seemed uncharacteristically upset with this turn of events.

Sidney squeezes the King’s hand, and the King takes in a breath, squaring his shoulders. “Tomorrow we march West until we reach the coast. My heart has Seen the answers to our prayers there. Sirs Letang and Kunitz, mobilize your best. And bring that water witch, Matthew, with us. We may need his powers to push circumstances to our favor,” King Evgeni announces.

Flower’s jaw tightens, and Sir Dupuis lifts his chin. “What about us, my lord?”

“You are to maintain the home borders to stop anyone who attempts to take advantage of our absence,” Sidney answers. “And run every day tasks while we are gone.”

Conor turns sharply toward his teacher. “You intend to go as well?”

“I must, dear heart,” Sidney murmurs. “You are staying here as well. I trust nothing will go poorly in your care. The politics are not for you to worry about, Sir Dupuis can handle those. You already know what you must do if battle comes to these doors. I have trained you in my image, after all.”

“The most successful and beautiful image in all these lands,” the King adds, bringing Sidney’s hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles.

Zhenya politely lowers his gaze from the display.

“How long will you be gone, my lords?” Flower speaks now, his tone slightly shorter than normal.

“It should not take too long. Three days, maybe four, at most,” Sidney responds, narrowing his golden eyes at the green witch. “Do you have concerns about our absence?”

“None which can be said in present company,” Flower retorts.

“I understand your robes are lined with green but that does not mean your eyes must be as well. Matthew provides a better strategy for us. Do not be put out we have chosen to take one witch instead of the other.” Sidney’s tone leaves no room to argue.

Flower takes a breath, then stands. With a cursory bow, he turns and takes his leave, the doors opening to allow his exit.

“Always so dramatic,” the King grouses into the silence. “I trust some names come to mind, Sirs Kunitz and Letang, when I asked for the best?”

They both nod. “Yes, my lord.”

“Then why are you still sitting here when you could be getting them?”

They look at each other, then take to their feet. With a quick but still polite bow, they leave the main hall and go in different directions, each one to collect the warriors they had in mind.

No sooner after they depart do the King and Consort stand, their hands still linked. “Come, my jewel. We have many tasks and little time,” the King murmurs, looking at Sidney in a way that betrayed exactly what _tasks_ he wanted to get accomplished.

The corners of Sidney’s mouth twitch up as his own unnatural eyes darken in response. “Lead the way, my husband.”

They take their leave, and Conor looks at Sir Dupuis and Zhenya, the only other two remaining at the table, with a pained expression. “They are like my parents but behave like they’re my age.”

Sir Dupuis snorts. “Try being older than them, chosen one.” He stands and gives a nod to them both. “I expect they will be gone by first light. I also suspect your room will be unguarded tonight,” he says to Zhenya. “Try not to cause any mischief.”

“I’ve been a model guest,” Zhenya counters. Sir Dupuis only smiles and turns to take his leave.

That leaves just Zhenya and Conor at the table. They stare at each other for a moment, before Zhenya makes shooing motions at Conor. “Why are you still waiting here, go find him before they leave!”

He sees movement in the corner of his eye, and looks up to see the golden eagle statue ruffling its tail feathers. It seems to agree with him, although he still doesn’t trust them. Not after the first meeting.

Conor blushes, but stands and shuffles off a different way than the others had. Zhenya watches him go with a hope burning in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, if this works out, they’ll _all_ get what they want.

* * *

By morning, the castle is quiet. Zhenya doesn’t fully wake up until the sun has risen to the middle of the sky, the light no longer streaming directly into the windows in his room. There were no footsteps in the hallway, nor knocks at the door. Utter quietness.

He sits up, the sheets falling to his waist. He knows he wants to find Conor, but isn’t sure of the young mage’s schedule. He saw him at breakfast, usually, and in Sidney’s study, but he wasn’t sure how to get into the study without an invitation, and he knew he had probably missed breakfast on the whole.

He slides his legs out of bed and pushes himself to his feet. Slowly, he washes his face and dresses himself in the afternoon light. By now, the layers of clothing were becoming easier to put on, like the muscle memory of getting geared up for a game.

Zhenya didn’t enjoy wearing nothing but white, but he supposed stealing another’s clothing would result in something not so pleasant.

He knows the path to the dining hall, and finds it empty. The table stands, but it doesn’t appear that anyone had been in the room that day. The hearth itself is empty too, and cold to the touch.

Definitely unused.

Zhenya backs out of the room and turns down the corridor, heading into the gardens. Conor was not the only magical being Zhenya was familiar with that hadn’t been invited on the journey. The glass and stone house was tucked away in a corner of the gardens. Come to think of it, it was probably near where the building Sidney had taken them to after breakfast that first day to talk politics was.

Zhenya approaches the building and gently raps on the door. A voice inside calls for him to enter, and he does.

Flower has several parchments spread out on a long center table that was covered in dirt and random puddles of water. Pots and terrariums were stacked on nearly every available surface, and on one table, close to the stone hearth, were several trays of baby plants of varying colors.

Zhenya whistles. “Impressive, Flower.”

The green witch lifts his head from the diagram he had been drawing. He smiles, but it does not quite reach his eyes. “You think so?”

“One man to do all this, yes? Very impressive.”

“I’m glad someone thinks so, thank you.” The tone is the same one that goalie Flower uses when he’s trying to hide the hurt he’s feeling with politeness and smiles. Zhenya only let that Flower get away with it when the cameras were around. (He waited until they’d gone to tell Sid, only because they usually left him alone last, and Zhenya didn’t want to have any of that caught on camera.)

This time, however, there are no cameras.

“Is okay to be little bit mad that you not chosen to go fight.”

Flower tightens his grip on his quill. “I know that.”

“So why hide feelings at dinner?”

“Because I know what he’s doing.” Flower puts the quill down and puts his head in his hands. “He’s been training these new ones for a reason, he’s Seen something but isn’t sharing it. Maybe what they’re looking for is going to help him to undo that, I don’t know. But I…I know I’m not as young as I once was, but I’m also less stupid with my energy.”

He moves his head so he’s resting his chin in his hands now, rather than his whole face. “I’m constantly working at smaller projects, it keeps me busy, you know? But I can’t summon mudslides and rip tree roots out of the ground to shatter enemy forces like I once could. I’m out of practice, the kingdom’s reaches are so vast the only trouble comes from the West. And out there is just wind and sea, there’s very little living earth for me to work with.”

Zhenya knows this feeling well. Not the magic part of it, but the fear of replacement, of being too old, overshadowed; it’s something every hockey player fears. It’s a cyclical fear that never truly goes away.

And he also knows that his Flower is probably feeling very similarly, what with being regulated to a backup goalie to a kid 10 years younger than him. Zhenya didn’t pretend to understand what goalies thought or were truly like, but even he could see the sting of being superseded by someone younger.

Hell, the “Sid and the Kids” line still got to _him_ sometimes.

(At least they had the powerplay.)   

“I’m know how you feel. Replacement sucks,” Zhenya agrees. He steps closer to Flower, resting his forearms on the table and clasping his hands together. “But I’m not thinking Sidney is replacing you. You two are friends, yes?”

“I was part of the marriage contract that binds the two kingdoms, yes. And I like to think that we’re friends – he lets me get away with things very few other rulers would,” he admits. “But I want to continue to be friends with him while I play an active role. Not just stuck back here working on new displays for his Consort.”

“Flowers very pretty, make Sidney happy. But maybe find time to continue training?”

Flower shakes his head, sighing. “My daughters are growing up, and my wife appreciates having me off the front lines more. That’s not to say that I don’t do that sometimes, but being left back more and more is…well it’s frustrating.”

Zhenya blinks at this information. “Vero is your wife? Estelle, Scarlett are your daughters?”

The green witch nods, a small smile on his face. “Allow me a guess; your version of me has them too?”

“Of course. We all think Vero deserve better but she loves him anyway,” Zhenya answers. “They’re in love since children.”

This makes Flower’s smile grow, and he ducks his head. “Well I’m happy that we’re meant to be, even in two vastly different worlds.”

Zhenya nods, but before he could speak, his stomach growls, interrupting the silence. He blushes, and shrugs a bit. “Missed breakfast…” he mumbles as explanation.

Flower pulls a key from his pocket with a wink. “I have access to the kitchens. Come on, let’s get you some food.”

* * *

Lunch with Flower was a very informal affair. Zhenya showed him how to make sandwiches for the first time, with Flower creating fresh produce as needed for the dishes. From there it evolved into baking sweets, and by the time a chef walked in, the counters were littered with pies, tarts, fruit pirog, and some cooling pączki.

They got chased out, but it was more than worth it for Zhenya to have some of the treats he missed from home.

As they leave the kitchens, stacks of sweet boxes in their hands, Flower speaks up. “You could probably bring some of these to his Consort’s student,” the green witch offers. “I’ve heard he has quite the sweet tooth.”

“Would if I could find him.”

“Tried the library?”

Zhenya shakes his head. “Couldn’t find way back, and so many stairs.”

“Then come here!” Flower turns suddenly and uses his leg to open the door to the dining hall. He puts the boxes down on the table, and motions to the golden eagle statue perched in repose at the far end of the room. “The eagles are for showing off, but also help his Consort channel his Sight. With his Consort gone, his student has had to pick it up. Go on, go ask him.”

Zhenya puts the boxes down besides Flower’s stack. “You sure about this?”

Flower just nods and points at the bird. “Do it! Oh, but in the royal tongue.”

Zhenya sighs and approaches that end of the hall. The statue’s eyes glitter in the afternoon light, and Zhenya knows by now that that’s not all that causes the shine. “Could you find Conor please?”

The eagle tilts its head, and Zhenya tries again.

“Find his Consort’s student.”

The eagle ruffles its feathers and calls out, a long, high sound. Zhenya winces, and turns to Flower, who looks equal parts amused and shocked. Soon enough the call ends, and the eagle resumes its previous posture.

“…How do we know if it –”

“You called?” Conor’s voice sounds from a doorway hidden in shadow in the back of the hall. He steps forward, confused and slightly on edge. “Is there trouble?”

Zhenya shakes his head and beckons Conor forward. “No, no trouble. But have desserts! Flower say you might want?”

Conor walks into the room, his hood still up. The eagle leans its massive head down when he passes, and the young mage obligingly gives its beak a few pets, before continuing into the room.

“There’s no need to uphold an air of mystery amongst friends,” Flower chirps, motioning to the hood.

The grey and gold robed man blushes, but does not move to take his hood down. “Of course not, but allow me my comforts, yes?”

He walks to the edge of the table, surveying over the dishes. He opens one of the boxes, exposing the apple filled with pączki. Conor picks one up, before taking a careful bite of it. His eyes widen at the taste.

Zhenya feels proud at how the dish was received. “You like?”

“Give the recipe to a chef, these should be kept forever,” Conor groans, taking another bite. “So warm and sweet, and – HEY!”

While he had been eating, Flower snuck around the table and pulled his hood down. Aside from fluffy hair as a result of the hood being ripped off, there doesn’t seem to be anything different about him. The green witch looks disappointed. “Here I thought you were keeping actual secrets…”

From Zhenya’s side, however, he sees the red and purple marks on Conor’s neck and jaw. The hockey player laughs out loud, genuine and clear. “So you _did_ talk to him? And went well?” he chortles.

Conor blushes bright red, and tries to fight it when Flower spins him around, but when the witch sees the hickeys, he too starts laughing. “Oh, this is fantastic! Who’s the lucky one that had the chosen one warming his bed last night?”

“ _None of your business._ ”

“But went well, yes?” Zhenya asks, calming his laughter.

The young mage shuffles his feet but nods, a hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah, it did. I think…if all goes well out there I think it will work out.”

“They return in how many days, four?”

Conor mutely nods again.

“So you will see him then.”

Flower, who had been silent after his initial outburst, has a calculating look on his face. His fingers rub at his soul patch in thought, his weight shifted onto one leg. “So it’s someone that his Highness has deigned a good enough warrior to come with him on this journey…” Jealousy doesn’t taint his tone, but Zhenya gives him a reproachful look regardless.

“Stop trying figure this one out, Flower. Let Conor have secret.”

“ _Thank you,_ Geno.” Conor flips his hood back up, even though the secret’s more or less out now. “Think Sir Dupuis’s family would enjoy some sweets?”

“Married to Carole-Lyne? Four kids?” Zhenya asks.

Conor gives him a quizzical look, but Flower merely nods. “I’d say the parallels of one family structure continue into this life too. Come, the young mage knows the way.”

* * *

Zhenya had been over to the Dupuis residence several times in his time in Pittsburgh, even though Duper had technically retired in December two years ago. The bridges of friendship and family never truly dissolved, especially for someone who had been so integral in the Penguin franchise as Duper had been.

This house was different, obviously. It was in a cluster of houses within the wall that separated the castle from the rest of the forest. They were made of stone, with different trimming colors to indicate which family lived within. The house lined with green had several flowers poking through the snow, and judging by the tender look on the green witch’s face as they passed by, that was the place he called home.

They approach a house lined with a dark navy blue, with several wooden toys littered out in the snow. Conor waves a hand and the toys collect themselves in a neat line, snow dropping off of them, leaving them dry.

He walks up to the door, knocking politely. A rustle of commotion sounds inside, and Carole-Lyne opens the door. She’s in a dark blue dress that exposes her shoulders, a white apron over top of it. A matching dark blue ribbon ties her hair back, and she startles at the grouping of people on the doorstep.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, young mage?” she asks, subtly drying her hands on her apron.

“Nothing but to receive these sweets. It seems these two shouldn’t be allowed into the kitchens, as all they make is trouble,” Conor responds, looking over his shoulder at Zhenya and Flower.

“Delicious trouble, might I add,” Flower adds, giving a warm smile to Carole-Lyne. “How are the children?”

“You could ask them yourselves, if you stay around for their return. Apologies for the mess; four children does not a clean household make.” Her gaze moves from Flower to Zhenya, and her eyes widen slightly. “You must be the newcomer.”

Zhenya gives her as friendly a smile as he can. “Yes, I am. Sorry to be interrupting, but. Have good desserts.” He lifts the boxes slightly in proof.

“Oh, yes of course – please, come in,” she explains, stepping back from the doorway. Conor goes in first, followed by Flower, and then Zhenya, at the end.

Inside is cozy, but Zhenya can only imagine how cramped it would be if guests were to come over for long. A fire burns in the hearth, warming the main room, and another burns in the kitchen, with a pot over it. There aren’t pictures on the wall, but rather memorabilia – a pair of baby shoes, ornate knives, and several fancy plates sit atop the mantle in the den.

“I was in the middle of making dinner, apologies for the mess,” Carole-Lyne admits, bustling past them and into the kitchen once more. Freshly skinned potatoes sit on the counter top, with a few more floating in a bucket of water. “Please, make yourselves at home.”

“I am actually going to run back home quickly, give some of these to Vero and the girls.” The green witch scoops up some of the boxes and heads towards the door. “Save the good gossip for when I get back!”

“Wouldn’t dream of starting without you, Flower,” Conor calls back, taking a seat on the kitchen bench.

The door closes, and the mage, housewife, and inter-dimensional traveler all look at each other. “So how long have you been here? And what is your name?” Carole-Lyne asks, looking up at Zhenya.

“A…few days? Like, 5?” He blinks, unaware it had been that long. “And you can call me Geno.”

(The stories hinted that time passed differently in these worlds, but Zhenya couldn’t remember if it was faster or slower.)

Carole-Lyne nods, reaching for a potato. “Well, _Geno_ , welcome to our kingdom. I hope that all has been good for you so far?” she asks, working her knife quickly around the vegetable.

“Yes, castle very pretty. People very nice. King…very angry? At me, not know why.” Zhenya looks up at Carole-Lyne’s chuckle.

“He is a jealous man,” she explains. “Someone arrives, looking just like him, with the same name? He knows his Consort is loyal, but he hates competition. He ordered you to be killed, didn’t he?”

Zhenya nods, brows furrowed in confusion.

“And his Consort saved your life?”

“Yes.”

“Just like he saved this young mage’s life, yes?” she continues, nodding to Conor.

“Mmhmm.”

“Then I’d say you have very little to worry about. He’s already made up his mind about you, which essentially amounts to that he’ll let you stay here, but he won’t be happy about it. But I wouldn’t worry too much; you’ll be home before you know it,” she assures.

“Thank you, Carole-Lyne,” he murmurs.

“Where are the kids?” Conor asks, speaking for the first time.

“Maeva and Kody went to town to pick up some things, and I think Zoe and Lola went over to “help” with Estelle and Scarlett. They’ll probably come back over when dinner is ready.” She finishes peeling her potatoes and now sets about chopping them up. “At least, that’s when they better be back here.”

Conor looks at Zhenya expectantly, as if to check if these things were the same in his world. Zhenya gives him a nod and smile, before turning to face Carole-Lyne. “I’m help?” he asks, motioning to the pile of potatoes she had to handle.

She looks up, knife pausing in the air. “Oh…I mean, if you would like? I need to start making the biscuits anyhow – just cut these into manageable sizes?” she offers, holding the knife out to Zhenya, handle first.

He accepts it, and comes around to help her, used to prep from his own restaurant. They pass the afternoon in this scene, Conor helping with his magic when allowed (“I’ll not have magic unnecessarily tainting my food.” “It’s good practice!” “…Fine.”)

Eventually the kids trickle back home, dragging the entirety of the Fleury’s with them. They stop short when they see Zhenya, but once they realize that he is not their King, they bring him into the fold easily. Sir Dupuis comes home to a more than full house, but relief is tangible once he sees its all friends.

Dinner is a much louder affair than the formal meals Zhenya had become accustomed to, but it was nice to have the louder atmosphere of family life back together. He missed this, missed the interruptions and chirping, the sharing of meals and lack of titles. It made him homesick.

By the time they left, he and Conor walking back to the palace while Flower and Sir Dupuis remained back with their families, it was nice to have that moment of shared connection.

They pause before the door to Zhenya’s room. It seems empty without the two guards there, and Conor stares at the empty space to the left of the door.

“He’ll be fine,” Zhenya encourages, putting a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “He’s a smart guy, he’ll make it back here just fine. Besides, one day has already passed, and did you See anything bad happening?”

Conor shakes his head, and looks up at Zhenya. “No, not really. But my Sight isn’t as strong as Teacher’s.”

“Well duh, you’re still young, still learning. But you’ll be fine. Go to bed, and I’m pretty sure we’ll hear good things once they come back. Okay?”

The young mage takes a steadying breath and nods, taking a step back. “I’ll trust you on this. Goodnight, Geno.”

“Night, Conor.”

* * *

In the end, it’s three days later that heralds the return of the victorious party. They arrive in the middle of the day, the procession of tired but triumphant faces coming into the center courtyard. Each dismounts their horses, letting the servants take them away, and then filter away. Those in red follow Sir Letang to the right; those in blue follow Sir Kunitz to the left. No one seems to be gravely injured, although everyone’s clothing is muddy and blood stained. A few move stiffly, bruising and old cuts acting up.

Sir Dumoulin leans partially against Sir Schultz, the two of them guiding each other into the castle. Zhenya watches all of this from the windows of the study, Conor standing tensely besides him. “I should go see Teacher…” he murmurs, watching the King, his Consort, and Murrs walking into the main doors.

“Or you could go see Dumo,” Zhenya counters. “I think he would like to see you.”

Conor bites his lower lip, his hands tightening on the windowsill. He turns abruptly and walks out of the room, leaving Zhenya to scramble to follow.

They arrive at the throne room just as Sidney is taking his seat at the throne. Conor and Zhenya approach, bowing respectfully.

“Dear heart and guest,” he murmurs, looking down at the both of them. “I see the kingdom had not fallen into disarray with us gone. But you have questions.”

Conor nods, straightening himself up. “Yes, Teacher. Did you find what you sought?”

Sidney raises his hand and a silver cup floats forth from behind him. It settles between the two thrones, and Sidney looks at it with pride. “This has been keeping my Sight from seeing their movements. I wish to study it, and if I cannot learn of the true nature of its powers, it shall simply be destroyed.”

He looks between Zhenya and Conor, his golden eyes flashing. “I see that one of you has resolved your conflicts. You may now reap those rewards, if you so wish.”

Conor blushes, but bows again, turning to walk from the throne room. Once he’s gone, Zhenya remains alone in the room with the King and Consort.

“And I assume that you wish to return home, is that correct?” Sidney asks.

“Yes, please. I miss my friends, my teammates…I don’t know how long I’ve been gone.”

Sidney raises his chin in thought. “Tomorrow, we shall leave. I’m tired, and wish to recover from our battles, and I imagine you might have some goodbyes you may wish to partake in.”

Zhenya nods, but gives Sidney a smile. “I look forward to it.”

Sidney waves a hand, and Zhenya takes the dismissal for what it is. Finally, _finally_ he’s going home.

* * *

The goodbyes are strange. He’s saying goodbye to this version of his friends, but he knows he’s going to go see them again. Contact between the two realms is impossible, he knows, but as he says goodbye to Conor, and sees how Dumo has his hand resting on the small of the mage’s back, he thinks that this will eventually work out.

Sidney had arranged some kind of portal to be opened, following Zhenya’s description of what the practice facility had looked like, where it was, all the little details. It swirls in blacks and golds, as if alive.

“Lead the way,” Sidney encourages, motioning for Zhenya to take the first step. Zhenya can’t help it, holds his breath when he steps through.

They come through the closet as a procession, Zhenya in front, then the King, then Sidney. Zhenya takes a moment to bemoan the fact that he’ll have to face his teammates – face _his_ Sidney – dressed in these strange robes, but for now, it doesn’t matter.

“This way.” He starts down the hallway to the right, coming upon the doors that lead into the locker room. Zhenya pushes them open, and inside is a half dressed group of guys who appear to be deep in council.

“Did we check all of the usual spots?” hockey Sidney asks, face still flushed from whatever exertion he’d just finished.

“Yeah, checked the stands, the rafters, the kitchen; just can’t find him.” Tanger lists off, counting off on his fingers.

Flower nods in agreement, leaning against his stick. “Maybe he found Narnia?”

“Close enough,” Zhenya interjects, and the room turns to stare at him.

There’s just a moment of silence before it _explodes_ into noise.

“Where have you been –”

“What the _fuck_ are you wearing?”

“You _motherfucker –_ ”

“ _Who the hell are they?_ ”

It’s Conor – and oh, he looks familiar here in his Under Armor, rather than grey and gold robes – who interjects that. He stands, coming over to the cluster of three waiting.

Sidney puts a hand out, which brings Conor to a halt. He looks between Zhenya and the doppelgängers behind him, before looking at Flower with a glare. “Alright, Flower. Jokes over, explain. Who are they.”

Flower holds his hands up with an innocent expression. “Look, I appreciate that you think my pranks can be this elaborate but honestly I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just as clueless as you.”

Before Zhenya can explain, the mage version of Sidney walks further into the room, surveying the room with his golden gaze. “It really is a magic-less place…history, for sure, but it lacks something,” he murmurs in his royal tongue. “I much rather prefer our kingdom.”

“Of course, my Jewel,” the King replies, pushing past Zhenya and sparing no glances to those around him. The outfit is painfully out of place, but the knife tucked into his belt warns for actual seriousness.

He pauses in his surveying upon Conor, and tilts his head critically. “This one pines just as mine did. But he does not share the Sight. Really, a magic-less world is quite depressing.”

The room stares with open mouths, and Zhenya debates if he should translate or not. But before he can make up his mind, the mage turns to him. “Are you going to introduce me, now that we are guests in your realm?” he asks, raising one brow.

“I will but we have to use English. Um, the common tongue? They don’t speak Russian – the royal tongue, I mean.”

“Hmph. Of course not, not royalty,” the King grouses in thickly accented English. Sidney merely looks at Zhenya expectantly.

“…Right.” He rubs a hand down his face, before gesturing to the heavily decorated Sidney. “This is Sidney Crosby, Consort to the Warrior-King of the Iron Kingdom, and…and Jewel of the Northern Lands.” Admittedly, the whole honorific was too long for him to remember, but he thinks he got the most important parts of it. “And this is King Evgeni Vladmirovich Malkin, King of the Iron Kingdom, Banisher of Evil…yeah.”

Flower looks with wide eyes between the two sets of Sidney’s and Evgeni’s, and immediately bursts out laughing. “Whoever made this, please teach me your ways. Oh, look at him blush! ‘Jewel of the Northern Lands,’ a ruby of Canada, for sure.”

Sid’s face is bright red, and he hides his face in his hands. His mage counterpart, however, doesn’t seem to have quite the same reaction.

The King reaches for his belt, but his Consort puts a hand on his wrist to stop him. With his other hand, he brings Flower right in front of him. Even though he has to look up at the goalie, he maintains utter control.

“Marc-André Fleury, not of my own lands. I normally find your sense of humor a reprieve from the dreariness of politics but it has not once turned against me. What is it about me that you find so amusing?” Over his shoulder, King Evgeni gives Flower the same glower Zhenya has when facing off against someone at the dot. It’s intimidation with the promise to deliver.

“…Nothing,” Flower squeaks, shuffling a bit in place.

Sidney continues to stare him down, before dropping his hand. Flower takes advantage of having his own autonomy back, and scurries back to his stall. He’s had enough, and Zhenya can’t blame him.

“Well, you see all is here,” he begins, but the mage cuts him off.

“You must be Geno’s betrothed, yes?” he asks Sid.

The locker room had never been so silent before that moment. Zhenya didn’t know how the mage had learned of his name – perhaps his version of Rusty? More prevalent, though, was _what_ he had said. Zhenya looks at Sid with wide eyes, and Sid returns the glance with equal confusion and panic. “Uhm…”

“I haven’t asked him yet,” Zhenya mutters in Russian. “Remember? You asked me to help Conor with his problem and he helps me with mine.”

“I’m helping you along,” Sidney answers back in English, still looking at his hockey playing self. “For to live in a world without your other half is a lonely existence indeed. Even _our_ Flower has his Vero.”

Zhenya swallows nervously, and looks at the mage and King. “I ask in my own time. Did you see all?”

Sidney gives the room another critical look over, his eyes shining even in the white light. “I believe I have Seen all,” he finally decides, extending a hand back.

The King, who had been lounging against the door frame, rolling his blade in his hands, stands forward to take it. He gives a gentle kiss to the mage’s knuckles, before turning to lead them out.

“Farewell, Evgeni. Best of luck in your endeavors,” the mage calls behind them. The doors swing shut, there’s a flash of light from behind them, and then all is silent.

Zhenya turns and opens the doors, but all that’s there is the rest of the hallway. No kingdom, no snow, no magic; he’s truly back. He turns back around, a feeling of disbelief washing over him.

Tanger mutters something under his breath in French, which Flower answers. The two pair off, talking amongst themselves in the corner. The room slowly starts up again, but much more subdued. Only Sid, Conor, and Zhenya are left looking at each other.

“I’ll…let you two handle this,” Conor mutters, but Zhenya reaches out, putting his hand on Conor’s shoulder.

“Wait, Shearsy.” Conor looks up expectantly, and Zhenya presses on. “Talk to him, will end well.”

The young forward’s eyes widen, no small part fear and suspicion. “How did you –”

“I helped that back in kingdom. Magic you, warrior him. You’re happy.” He squeezes briefly, before letting his hand fall to the side. “Let yourself be happy.”

Conor looks at him, before slowly nodding and turning around. He heads back to his stall, head down, but he changes directions at the last minute, going over to Dumo.

Sidney interrupts his thought process. “G? Can I talk to you for a sec?” he asks softly, and this is the Sidney Zhenya knows. He nods, leaning down to get closer to him.

“Yes?”

“No, not…come outside.”

They go through the same doors their counterparts just went through.

“Sid, I’m sorry for them,” Zhenya begins in a low voice, cutting off what Sid was going to say. “Really. I’m…you don’t have to listen what they say. Not important.”

Sidney’s still blushing, but has a look of determination on his face. He puts his hand on Zhenya’s chest, and takes a steadying breath. “What if I wanted it to be important?”

Zhenya blinks mutely. He hadn’t thought his feelings would be reciprocated, much less that Sid would come out and say something about it first. “You…mean that?”

Sid nods. “I’ve been meaning to say something about this but I just kept putting it off. But I don’t want to anymore. Especially not now. So just…I like you, G. More than just a teammate.” His blush gets worse and he laughs nervously. “God, this is so stupid, um…”

Zhenya cups his cheek and leans down to kiss him, silencing his words. Sid comes alive under his mouth, returning the embrace with the same determination and devotion that Sidney does everything with. Somehow they wind up pressed against the wall, Zhenya’s leg between Sid’s thighs, and _Jesus Christ his thighs._

Eventually Zhenya has the presence of mind to pull back, looking down at his captain with the same hangdog expression of love he’s known for. “Change and we go home.”

Sid smiles, his eyes crinkling in the way that punches the breath from Zhenya’s chest. “Okay. Be right back.” He presses one more kiss to the corner of Zhenya’s mouth before he leaves.

Zhenya leans back against the wall, and finds himself unable to stop smiling. Happy ever after, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](http://eddieluongo.tumblr.com/) if you wanna talk more about this verse (although it really is Bee's in creation, so give her some love too!)


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